A Violet Fire (Vampires in Avignon #1) - Kelsey Quick Page 0,77

to see how the real world does things. What it’s like to see things writhe.

She reclaims her footing and sizes me up, probably realizing that attempting to beat me into submission was not her best move. I step forward, inviting a fight. Anaya does the same when Emi jumps in and bows.

“Anaya, please. If you go any further then-”

I move Emi out of the way and stand inches from Anaya’s tall, lanky form. “What you have seen is only a fraction of what I’ve trained myself to do,” I say. “While you’ve been staring at yourself in the mirror all your life, I’ve been training myself on how to best ruin your reflection.”

Her blue-gray eyes widen.

“Back down,” I mutter.

The mood shifts and I can already tell I’ve won, if only by fear-mongering. Anaya breaks her posture and moves to the side, her eyes—for the first time—vulnerable. I push past her and find the other supply units making a path in their huddle for me. Savvy calls for me, but I ignore it. All I can think to do is leave. Leave the seraglio. The chain gives me that power, nothing is stopping me.

Anaya’s sobs fill my ears from behind. While it serves her right, a small flame within me ignites from sympathy. Maybe I don’t understand it completely… but Zein, the vampire that practically cradles me in captivity, is Anaya’s beacon of hope. Her purpose. And I’ve gotten everything she’s ever wanted without even trying. I blink the displaced guilt away.

At the end of the room, Madam Seriesa leans against the wall, watching me with interest. I give her the scowl of scowls since… well, why not? I don’t have to come back here. I can sleep in the libraries or studies, maybe even an abandoned janitor’s closet somewhere. God, Zein’s going to be furious when he finds out, but I don’t care.

The stairs lead me up the floors to the front room where the plants and benches sit gathering dust. I shuffle my way through the exit of the seraglio. The vampire attendant fusses as I try to leave but showing him my chain is enough to silence him. I’m well on my way to the grand hall, when I see it again.

The violet hue from the passage to the left.

My mind freezes but my feet lead me to exactly what I expected to find: The rippling purple wall and door. My fingers curl and uncurl into my palms over and over. What will I find this time? Am I hoping to find something?

No thought is stronger in my brain than what happened in the seraglio, so I open the door if only to take my mind off it. All the tension in my body releases.

It’s not the cathedral.

The dim, golden library with the fur rug and the inscription on the wall greets me instead. I immediately go to work to find its translation, if only to relieve my mind. Ducking in between the rows of books, more at ease this time, I check my surroundings until it’s apparent no one else is here. Recalling where everything was before, I meander to the spot where I found the gilded book, The Setting Sun. It feels heavier somehow in my right arm as I take it to sit along the far wall. My cheek hurts, and my knuckles are bruised from when I hit Anaya square in the face, but I try my best to ignore it.

I open the book and skim past the first pages that are nothing but dates and acknowledgements. The table of contents isn’t too far in, but the book is bound to have the inscription in Acclevin before anything else. Two pages more and there it is.

The Setting Sun

This world giveth and taketh away,

Hope’s light stripped from malice, virality, hate,

Grace subdued on the Sun’s brightest day.

Jerusalem’s tempest, a century reborn,

Again, and Again,

Forevermore.

Sacrifice for sacrifice, thousands spared, thousands torn.

The damned will claw and forever warn,

The heir apparent, the violet judgment,

Unleashing the wrath of the angels forlorn.

Jerusalem’s tempest unleashed,

Again, and Again,

Forevermore.

Well, that fell short of my somewhat high expectations.

I do a flip through of the glossy pages before standing to return the brick to its shelf. Wherever this place is, it must be linked to some sort of temple. Jerusalem, angels, grace. Words that were used fairly often back in Avignon during prayers and gatherings. The corner of the room catches my eye again, where the case of invaluable trinkets rest. Except this time, there’s a violet